Death, She Wrote.

Oswald hated cases like this. Common break-ins, unstable shoot-em ups in the living room; panic killings. Nothing interesting about them. The killer would hopefully succumb to their conscience and spare themselves the ordeal of the guilt.

The floorboards protested as his rubber soles left soggy footprints down the hall. The respectful hub-bub of officers and the odd sterile flash directed him to the room in question. The door was ajar; a telltale sign that the stains were larger than the occasional Merlot the carpet was accustomed to. The creak of the ancient hinges announced Oswald’s arrival, and the officer on duty glanced up from his coffee. He nudged his head in the direction of the victim; a woman strewn over her writing desk in the center of the room. She appeared to be in her late 40’s, and denying it, if the artificial blonde and blood red nails were anything to go by. On the notepad beside her, in intricate lettering, was the single word:


Oswald loved cases like this.

View this story's 1 comments.